


and, he was just--gone

by triesquid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, F/F, F/M, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Derek, PTSD-anger Sitles, Pack, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Pack-not-Pack, Post-Alpha Pack, Pre-Slash, bindrunes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:47:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triesquid/pseuds/triesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After sophomore year, Stiles disappeared for a month.</p>
<p>After the Final Battle with the Alpha Pack, <em>Stiles disappeared for four fucking weeks.</em></p>
<p>Or, the one where Stiles is amazing and bamf and disappears to learn how to use his Spark skills, but when he returns, he's angry--so <em>angry</em>--all.  The.  Time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and, he was just--gone

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, this is the beginning. I don't know where it's going or really how it's going to get there, but I'm sure it's going to be so full of angst that I'm going to end up crying in the corner somewhere.
> 
> Fair warning?

After sophomore year, Stiles disappeared for a month.

After the Final Battle with the Alpha Pack,  _Stiles disappeared for four fucking weeks._

(And, yes— _fuck it_ —it was totally appropriate to capitalize ‘Final Battle.’  Hell, it should be skywritten and in neon lights and posted on one of those digitalized billboards in Times Square.  It was that freaking epic.)

After the Final Battle with the Alpha Pack—where Stiles had  _called down lightening_  and fucking  _force-threw_  the entire Alpha Pack across a clearing and _held them immobile_  as he explained in  _excruciating, exacting detail_  what he could do,  _what he would do_ , if they didn’t “hightail their fury, assholier-than-thou controlling, power-seeking, purist asses out of their territory  _right the fuck now_ ” all the while swinging a rowan wood baseball bat in murderous loops, his amber fae-eyes obscured by black, by power, by resolution—Stiles disappeared for 28 days, 10 hours, and 42 minutes.

It was— _Stiles was_ —terrifying and fearsum, and it was all Derek could do to keep from stealing Stiles in the night and running away with him right then and there.

It took two weeks of the absolute ringing  _lack_  of Stiles, of coming into the Wolf Cave (because Stiles had to give it a fucking ridiculous name even though Derek insisted that the train depot was more of a lair or a hideout or a den than a super-hero’s Fortress of Solitude, and  _fuck Stiles, we’re not living in Crisis on Infinite Earths or Batman Begins; if anything, we’re totally living in Road to Perdition.  Now, for fuck’s sake, shut up about it._) for Derek to say anything about it as he watched the uneasy truce that had developed between Derek’s Pack and Scott’s not-Pack:  the way that Isaac and Scott had taken to running together, how Erica and Boyd were forming their own Pack-within-the-not-Pack to cope with their trauma and PTSD but were allowing Allison and Lydia to hover on the outskirts, how Lydia  _always brought Allison with her_ , how everyone (including Scott) kept a wary eye on Peter and his ever-questionable sanity, how Isaac and Scott looked startled and guilty whenever Derek caught them sitting on the train depot floor speaking quietly.

There was still, understandably, an uneasy alliance between Scott and Derek that would have been present for all to see if there had been anyone else beside the not-Packs to see it.

Especially after the entire Gerard debacle.  It was totally understandable why Derek had trust issues with Scott, and probably—if Derek were feeling particularly truthful with himself—why Scott might have issues with Derek.

They were working on it, okay?  They were all works in progress.

_Shut up, Peter._  

But, yeah, it took two weeks of all of that not-Pack togetherness and huge holes in conversations where snarktastic commentary should have been inserted to ask Scott what had happened to Stiles, had he seen Stiles, where the fuck had that brash, loud-mouthed human gone.

And Scott had straightened his shoulders, looking for all the world like he was going to tell Derek that it was  _none of your business; it’s your fault that we’re all in this anyway.  Just leave him alone.  He’ll be back when he’s fucking ready._ , but instead, he told Derek how Stiles had quietly spoken with Deaton when they were all getting patched up after the Final Battle with the Alpha Pack, about how Stiles was horrified and thrilled and felt dangerous because of what he had accomplished during that battle, that he had asked Deaton for training— _to be sent away to learn so that he didn’t hurt anyone that he didn’t actually want to hurt_ —and how Deaton had suggested a friend of his that lived in upstate Washington and how the Sheriff had agreed to sending Stiles away for the duration to  _get him out of Beacon Hills, get him away from my bad influence, Derek.  He didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye; his dad had him on the road at ass-in-the-morning.  I got a text from the road._

Scott looked so bereft and lost and guilty and  _doubtful_  that Derek felt like his life— _his mistakes_ —had bled over onto them all and destroyed more lives.

Again.

That night, Derek went by Stiles’ house—used the doorbell like a fully-adult-non-person-of-interest person—and explained to the Sheriff what had really been going on in Beacon Hills for the last year.

Werewolves,  _kanima_ , geriatric hunters, and all.

Stiles returned home 12 days, 22 hours, and 8 minutes later.

_______

When Stiles returned home—Junior year starting in just a few days (6 days, 5 hours, and 3 minutes)—Derek couldn’t help but notice bindrunes inked upon his skin:   _purisaz_  overlaying and bracketing either side of  _ehwaz_  at the base of his skull;  _gebo_  on the inside of his left wrist,  _naudiz_  on his right; when Stiles’ shirt rode up, Derek could see  _laguz ansuz purisaz uruz_ on the hollow of his left hip and  _ophila tiwaz ansuz_  on the hollow of his right; he saw  _ansuz uruz jera ansuz_ inked onto the tops of both of Stiles feet when Derek ran into him in the forest, feet dangling in the creek; and a single solitary  _tiwaz_  was visible in the middle of Stiles’ back the one time that Derek caught him (for a split second) with his shirt half on.

Stiles didn’t talk to Derek about how he had told the Sheriff about a year’s worth of lies and danger and monsters in the dark.

Stiles didn’t talk to anyone about what had happened while he was gone, didn’t talk about what the bindrunes indelibly bound to his body meant, didn’t talk about the Final Battle with the Alpha Pack—

Stiles didn’t talk to anyone about anything anymore.

Stiles was angry. 

Stiles was angry all the time.

Stiles was so angry that Derek could feel it radiating from him every time they were in the same place at the same time, could see it in corner-of-the-eye sparks of color, could hear it in the silences that still echoed in meetings and not-Pack bonding and monster-of-the-week nights in the woods:  Stiles’ physical presence coupled with his total lack of any other sort of presence.

Stiles had been missing for 34 days, 15 hours, and 45 minutes.


End file.
